


093 - Anything

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Reader-Insert, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-16
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-10-11 03:17:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17438921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “I was wondering if you could base a story on their song "anything”. Like not taking the lyrics but an about a relationship on the edge and all those things that drive you mad about the other person but like you work on things anyway because you genuinely adore them and it’s what you need and you’ll do anything to stay with them.“





	093 - Anything

"Babe, calm down. You're gonna be fine," Van said. The phone line crackled, straining from the distance between continents. He'd been gone for almost two months.

"I'm not going to be fine. Everything is fucked. You should see her. She's so pissed at me," you were talking fast, pacing in the back alley behind your work. It smelt like cigarettes and stale beer; your stomach turned.

"You told me you had a couple weeks left to finish it?" Van asked. It wasn't accusing you of lying, you probably had mixed up the details of when the article was due to be put on your editor's desk. She'd been hunting you down all day looking for it, but you retreated to the alley to call Van for comfort.

"Whatever. I'm freaking out-"

"Babe, hold on a sec," Van said cutting you off.

"What?!" You waited a second, then ten, then hung up. He'd found something more important than being there for you.

…

The day he got back from tour you had to work. You were held up at your desk writing some fluff piece about a local school's drama club. It wasn't what you dreamed being a journalist would be like. Your phone continued to buzz in your pocket with text messages from Van. He knew you were working, and he knew he needed to leave you be for that reason. He was also incredibly bad at doing that. You groaned loudly when you read the last message. He was downstairs.

You met him in the alley. He was leaning against the wall, smoke in hand. His face lit up when he saw you, and he pushed off from the bricks to bundle you up in a hug. His clothes smelt like tobacco and his hair hadn't been washed yet.

"Van, I've got to work,"

"I know. I know. I'm sorry. I just needed to see you, yeah?" You looked at him. You wanted to be more happy to see him. You really did, but you were stressed and working to a strict deadline. "Look. I brought you one of them pasties you like." He handed over the small brown paper bag he'd been holding. You hadn't noticed it. You took it and held it to your chest. Still warm. An act of love.

"I gotta go. I'll see you later, okay?"

He nodded, and you turned to walk back inside. "Y/N?" He said your name like a beg. You turned around and he pulled you close again. "I love you. So fuckin' much. You know that right?" You nodded and let him kiss you.

…

"Van. I'm too tired for this. Can we please just sleep?"

His face folded into a sad frown, and he studied your expression. "But it's a good name, yeah? Has a nice ring to it. Good name for the oldest kid," he tried again. You shrugged and rolled over in bed, leaving him to think of baby names alone. You felt him try to get settled under the blankets. He ran his hand down your back, asking for cuddles or any small touch. You didn't move. Eventually he got up and went to a different room. You could hear his guitar well into the night.

…

You were very, very drunk by the time Van showed at the club. Most of the guys were already there, and you were trying to out-drink them. You felt arms wrap around you and a head come to rest on your shoulder. You didn't need to look to know it was Van. He went to say hi, but as he did Bondy tried for another shot. It wouldn’t go down and he spat it out between the fingers he had pressed to his mouth to try to contain the liquid. It was hysterical, and like everyone around you burst into laughter. Van moved away from you. You turned around to him when you could manage; your sides hurt and you couldn't breathe. Van watched you with a smile.

"I think you just fuckin' deafened me with that laugh, Y/N," he said. You grinned and fell forward, trusting him to catch you, which he did.

You slowed down on the drinking, gratefully sipping the water Van kept putting in front of you. You sat half on the dirty bar couch, half across Van's legs. He held an arm around you, happy to have you happy and affectionate. When he caught up and you were the same tipsy, you started to get distracted by each other's eyes. Each other's hair. Freckles. Hands. Lips.

As you walked to yours together in the cold, you swooped to be under him. Your hips bumped close and you laughed about something together.

"You're gonna be the death of me," Van said.

…

As you watched Donald Trump be sworn in as the President of the United States, you cried with grief. When Van came into the room he fell to his knees in front of you. You were sitting on the edge of the couch, sobbing.

"Babe? What's wrong? What happened?" He moved your hands from your face and pulled you closer to hug you tight. You kept watching the television screen while wrapped up in Van's arms. He realised what you were doing and followed your line of sight. He watched the inauguration for a minute. "I thought something bad happened, Y/N! You're still cryin' because this clown won?" You turned to him.

"What? Van, are you kidding me? Do you get what this means?"

"We don't live in America,"

"Oh my god," you breathed in hard, your anger redirecting at Van. "You don't fucking get it. This is… People are going to suffer, Van"

"Not us."

It hurt you that he didn't see what you could. You knew Van though. You knew he saw as far as his immediate friends and family. If they were happy, and his band was selling out shows, he didn't much care about anything else.

He moved to sit next to you, and he let you keep crying, and he comforted you like he did when you got sad watching Bambi, not like how he comforted you when your boss yelled at you or your friend's father died.

…

Van was very lucky he wasn't at your flat when you found the cigarette butt on your balcony. You had bought an ashtray for that very purpose. You didn't smoke, and hated the habit. You were fuming and considered calling him to yell and scream. Instead, you threw the ashtray off the balcony and watched it shatter on the road below. Luckily nobody was down there, and luckily nobody saw your tantrum.

When he came around later that day, not knocking and walking straight in, you came storming out of the bedroom. He put the food he'd brought you on the table and took a step back. "Whatever I did I'm sorry,"

It made you angrier, that he was just generally sorry rather than knowing specifically what had happened. You could see him squirm under the icy glare you were sending him. "This isn't your fucking house, Van. You can't just leave cigarette butts everywhere,"

"What? I didn't,"

"Balcony,"

He looked over the room to the glass door. The wind picked up, and it was an obvious explanation for him. "I always use the ashtray you got me. You know that. Wind probably got it. Babe, ca-"

"Don’t you fucking dare tell me to calm down," you spat. He looked at the ground, thought, then looked back up.

"I'll quit. Proper. I'll go to the doctor and get help and everythin'. I promise," he cautiously stepped closer to you. When you didn't react with violence, he moved again until he was standing right in front of you. He hooked a piece of hair behind your ear and ran a thumb down your cheek. "You hate it. I know. I love you and I'll stop."

Van quitting smoking for good was never going to happen. You both knew that, but it was more about the effort than the outcome. He lasted a week before he cracked.

…

You had woken up in Van's bed. The fitted sheet had come off the mattress in the night, and it served to make the room look even more uncared for. There were no prints on the walls, no fancy lights. There was the bed, and one bedside table that was stacked high with tea cups and water glasses. Some clothes were scattered across the carpet, and everything else was piled in the wardrobe. Even his quilt cover was a basic grey colour. Somehow though, even against the cold colours and empty space, you felt at home. 

You could hear his voice from somewhere in the cottage. You tried to work out what he was doing, then you heard Larry. They were probably just smoking in the kitchen. Fifa in the lounge room. Conversations on the back step. The usual. The same thing they did every day if there was no album to record or show to play. They'd be no point in criticising Van for the simplicity of his existence at home. On the road, it was anything but. You thought about the long days he spent on that bus. Early starts for breakfast radio. Late nights standing in the cold so people could meet him; so he could thank them for buying the record. It had to be exhausting, and it was logical that at home he just wanted to hang out with you and Larry and forget what day of the week it was. 

The pillows smelt like him, and you pulled it close and inhaled. 

All the little things. The annoying habits, the distance apart, the personality differences. How could they mean a fucking thing? You were in love with him and the love was so complete and so whole and all consuming. You could keep holding him to unreasonably high standards, and he could continue to not meet them and apologise, and you'd love each other regardless. He was the first thing you thought about when you woke up. The last thing you saw behind your eyelids when you fell asleep. The sun and the stars and the air and the stormy ocean. All those fucking cliches. Every single line of every single love song. That was Van. That was you and Van. How could ever let him believe that you felt anything different?

You rolled out of bed and pulled on a t-shirt. It was huge on you, coming down to your knees. It wasn't Van's, but he'd brought it home from tour in his bag. You walked out of the bedroom and followed their voices. As predicted, they were in the kitchen. Larry was sitting at the small circular table in the centre of the room, smoke in hand. Van was leaning back against the bench next to the sink. When you walked in he went to put his cigarette out. 

"No, don't waste it," you said. He froze mid-action. You stood in front of him and curled your arms around his middle. He wrapped an arm around you and kissed the top of your head. "If you keep wasting them, you'll have to buy more. Should be saving money," 

"Save money for what?" he asked back, inhaling happily. 

"I don't know. Things. Kids. College. Bigger cars. Stuff," 

"Back to having kids together, are we?" he asked. Larry chuckled under his breath, obviously aware of the ongoing tension; the small fights. You nodded into Van's chest. "Well that's good." 

You made him sit as you cooked them eggs and sausages and toast and tea. Van watched you carefully, suspicious of your new found calm and affection. When Larry excused himself to the bathroom, Van pushed his chair back and beckoned you to come closer. You stood between his legs and he held your hips. 

"What?" you asked. 

"What happened? Are you dying or something?" 

You laughed. "No,"

"Then why are you being..." 

"A normal girlfriend?" He didn't want to say it in case it sounded harsh, but he nodded. "I just... I get caught up sometimes, in the details. Don't see the bigger picture. I don't mean to make you feel bad all the time. About smoking and everything else. I get stressed," 

"I know, it's alright," 

"It's not though, Van. I'll be better. If I'm better, you're better. I love you so much that I can feel it in my, like, my literal bones," your body shook with emphasis and his happy expression shifted to a darker one. "It hurts sometimes, how much I love you. And if I think about what it would be like without you, I just... I can't. When you're on tour and I'm alone, I realise how much I need you. I just.. I love you." 

Van stood up and his hands moved to your shoulders. His head dipped to look you directly in the eyes. "You don't need to change for me to love you that much too. You drive me absolutely fucking mental most of the time, but that's alright. You can hide my smokes and refuse to come to the gigs all you want. Ain't going to change how mad I am about you. Yeah? As long as you're mine," 

"I am," 

"Well there you go!" he said and his voice picked up with the happy inflection he was known for. He stood up straight. "Nothing to worry about, love. Come on. I'll wash, you dry." He started to pile the dishes in the sink. You pushed him aside.

"I'll wash," you said. He laughed and kissed your cheek. Larry returned, and you suspected he was waiting out in the hallway until the moment was over. 

…

A month later, after moving in with Van, he left for a string of shows across the U.K. He wouldn't be gone for long, but you were both worried that the honeymoon period you'd been experiencing would be ruined. Him being away again might have made all the bad resurface, undoing all the good work. He woke you up early in the morning. The sun had barely lit the room and he was standing by the bed, dressed and ready to go. You looked up at him sleepy, and reached out a hand. He threaded his fingers through yours as he crouched down to your level. 

"You're good, yeah?" he asked. You nodded. "If you need me, just call. Anytime, no matter what. About anything. Okay?" You nodded again. "Alright," he kissed you and you kissed back lazy and still sleepy. He smiled. 

"I love you," 

"I love you too."

He disappeared out the door and you rolled back over, pulling his pillow close to you.


End file.
